


Contingence

by Findarato



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, character introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26923621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findarato/pseuds/Findarato
Summary: Regarding touch, in moments.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58





	Contingence

**Author's Note:**

> Written after a frenzy of FFVIIR and drowning in feelings that are more than ten years old. Cloti is a beautiful ship.

**.**

When she first reaches out to him, fingers hovering, she glances from arm to shoulder, then his hand.

She settles for the uneven surface of his pauldron. Her thumb catches against one of the screws. “Cloud,” she says, louder, shaking him a little.

His body, half-comatose, lunges at her with more force than she imagined. A hand clamps her upper arm in a vice. It’s warmer than she thinks a hand should be, even through his glove.

“Cloud—” Tifa holds up her hands, showing her palms. “Remember me?” She’s also glad she had first put down all the bags she was carrying. Had his eyes always been such a bright blue with tints of green? He doesn’t let go, and the intensity of his eyes unsettles her as they look her up and down.

However, she’s faced worse than a tight grip or a dark stare, so she keeps her hands up, and her voice low. “Cloud, it’s Tifa.”

His lips part, then close. A visible shudder runs through his shoulders, and she feels it against her arm. Slowly, recognition creeps his eyes. “Tifa,” he repeats. His voice fissures, like he hasn’t used it for a while. “You’re here.”

Something loosens in her chest; the force of a triggered memory overlays with the present. She sees a younger face with less defined features, larger eyes. And then, she can’t see it anymore—only the line of his jawline and the drawn eyebrows and slightly narrowed eyes.

Five years is a lot of time. She doubts he was the same, if she had changed so much—since that incident.

“Hi,” she offers, keeping her voice light, lighter than she thought she was capable of. “Can I have my arm back?”

**.**

And after that, they don’t touch. Beyond her patting his shoulder, they are separated by the distance of a room, or her own bar that she slides her drinks across. Even when they fight together for the first time, he keeps himself at arms’ length.

She catches herself glancing at him, often. Maybe it’s the weight of the sword, but he keeps his shoulders forward and tensed. The dark, brooding eyes he tends is more of a façade than his actual mood. He nearly smiles, once or twice.

“How did you sleep,” she asks him, once. “I know the walls here are kind of thin.”

He only nods and waves a hand. “I’ve slept in worse.”

Cloud doesn’t take coffee in the morning, and he eats less than she imagined a person of his stature and lifestyle would. Maybe it’s the mako, but that’s under the list of “Questions Tifa Lockhart wants to ask Cloud Strife but (probably) never will.”

The flower she keeps in an empty bottle—gin, to be precise. It’s a hint of vibrancy that catches the attention of everyone, but she couldn’t get more out of Cloud about where it came from. Their fingers had traversed, intersected, but that barely counted.

He doesn’t quite look at her, despite their proximity (or lack of). His eyes were usually somewhere between the space between her ear and shoulder, or maybe at her nose. The times they do make contact are swift, and he always pulls away too soon.

But he’s never really been on for direct glances, not unless he’s trying to be menacing. And he’s got no reason to be menacing at her, except that first time.

It’s with some resignation that she takes up this new hobby of Cloud-watching, Cloud-observing. The fact he throws darts, like he knows how the game goes but doesn't really care about the numbers, how he lets his hands hang to his side but they’re always ready. The way he doesn’t really talk to people but listens to them anyway. The odd jobs he’s picked up, even the ones less desirable to him, but he fulfills anyway and never forgets a single task. How he moves through crowds of people and they usually let him through.

After the time they shared a drink, she had picked up his glass. No trace of fingerprints, only the faint smudge of his lips.

Tifa nearly traces the imprint before she stops herself. The glass tumbles into the sink and she cranks the faucet as far as it would go, blasting the cup and her shirt.

She can still see it when she puts it away.

**.**

Fighting is both exhilarating and stressful. Not that Tifa likes breaking kneecaps and bones or hearing people screaming (unless they deserved it), and monster guts are disgustingly hard to clean from her gear, but there’s a satisfaction when the enemies get soundly trounced and the air smells like the last bits of materia she used as she takes her inhalations. Her fingers always tingle, almost vibrating.

Alive, that’s the word. There’s no record-keeping, but she’s mostly aware of her count.

Fighting with Cloud is a wholly different feeling. When fighting with someone else, one had to be aware of the surroundings, like listening to music that you’re playing. The instant you forget someone is next to you, or above you, there’s the risk of slamming into them or shooting them. Uncoordinated moves will kill a team faster than an enemy ever will.

But not with Cloud. For someone with a sword nearly as broad and tall as he is, he makes space for her effortlessly. Ironically he’s more vocal when fighting compared to their actual conversations, and certainly more expressive. And he always, always knows when to cast Cure, to keep the adrenaline at the perfect level.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. SOLDIERs were notoriously good at what they did. They probably had a whole training course on working with others, otherwise they’d be killing each other— 

Well. Some still did.

The sword, with its nicks and scratches, carried on his back, might’ve killed more people than monsters, if she’s being honest.

But she can’t get anything out of him about those five years. Beyond him finally venturing to bring up that promise he made her when they were kids, or the fact he actually said, “I’m listening” (upon which she felt like she could’ve said everything on her mind but didn’t), they hadn’t gone there, not after the last attempt she had tried. 

Maybe it’s too painful. Maybe he had massacred a whole town or city. Maybe he lost a friend or two, or a lover? She tries to find the clues in his fighting, but all it gives away is how efficient he is.

One night, she pours him another drink and one for herself. “Do you know what you’re doing after this?”

Cloud keeps his eyes on one of the pictures behind her. “At this rate, I’ll be in Midgar for a while to clean it up.” 

“Marle has long-term payment plans, if you’re interested.”

“I see.”

She wonders how he would react if she laid his hand over his.

**.**

They’re all familiar with the smell of mako—Nibelheim, Midgar, anyone growing up near a reactor. For all its fluorescence, it smells more like lightning than chemicals. Sweet, even.

But coupled with a person, with Cloud, it’s a little overpowering. When he grabs her hand as they jump off the train, she pictured, for a split second, cracking their skulls and bodies open, like broken bottles and glass.

Instead, there’s only a few cuts and scrapes, and the feeling of the ridges of leather and muscles and skin against her body. The fabric of his sweater is thinner than she expected. His arms, pressed to her sides and back. His hands, still heated and not quite clutching at her.

“You all right,” he asks, the vibrance of his voice winded but still deep.

If she said no, what would he do?

But of course she’s all right, how could she not be after literally being held as they rolled across concrete and stone. When he lets go and they stand, she can still feel the weight of his frame, and the smell of mako and metal lingers.

A departure from the boy that smelled like sunshine after a rainy day.

Electricity crackles in the tunnel, but even as they fight their way out, even though her ears are ringing from Barret yelling and the place stinks of guns and explosives, it’s like she can still feel him, covering her as they fall.

He probably didn’t think much of it. He was just being a good person. Cloud’s just kinder than he thinks.

Or so she tells herself.

**.**

Between losing Cloud and going to Don Corneo’s place, she ends up closing the bar after mixing up a drink or two. “Guess it’s an off day,” is her excuse. He doesn’t have a PHS or phone, and neither does she.

The makeup Tifa picks up is cheap, overbright, and smells like plastic. But as long as the eyeshadow doesn’t give her an eye infection, and as long as the lipstick doesn’t make her lips swell, it’ll do the job. It’s not that she doesn’t know how, or dislikes it. More like it’s impractical and if she buys actually good makeup, it’ll go to waste because she’s not wearing it every day. Foundation and mascara (waterproof) are enough for daily wear.

It’s a desperate, last-minute plan, but even without materia, she can kill a person if she wants. Even with sticky lips and heavy eyes, or the overtly, sickly strong scent of the perfume she sprayed. 

Wall Market is fun from time to time, but the lurid lavishness and obnoxious people keep her away. The amounts of people puking in alleys or lying face-down in puddles far outnumber the people pouring drinks on themselves or screaming for performers. And here she is, in the heart of its ichor, in the Don’s mansion, cheap makeup and all. And thinking about Cloud when he had tried to stop her. And he had definitely been looking more at her, though he didn’t say it. A girl always knows when she’s being looked at, after all.

What Tifa doesn’t expect is Cloud in even _more_ makeup, a wig, and a dress that…well. Flatters him? Between his flustered agitation and her distraction, she did notice his hand—smaller, when he didn’t have gloves on. Surprisingly smooth. The hint of blue and green veins against the tendons.

She nearly reaches for them, but he’s already up, and she catches a whiff of perfume on him, too.

The mako-metallic scent is still there, as is smoke, and when their arms brush, she’s reminded of the moments he had her in his arms.

“Tifa.” He’s looking at her. The makeup really brings out his eyes, and highlights his cheekbones. “You all right?”

She lowers her head. “I’m fine. Just getting my bearings.”

What she wants is a photo of him in that dress—for the memories. Later, she realises it’s almost like the outing she convinced him to go on with her. Dressed up, matching, out for some fun.

Even if the only fun part was scaring Corneo and seeing Aerith smash one poor idiot with a chair to his face.

**.**

It’s amazing how in a few hours, everything can change, how at a moment’s notice, you could lose everything.

Running on little sleep and so much anger, and absolutely sick with fear, through sewers and monsters and the Train Graveyard, desperate but trying to keep her spirits up. Even jokes with Aerith about shopping and about Cloud being their bodyguard. _Hoping_.

Yet everything smells like fire, smoke, and chemicals, and honestly feels like Nibelheim, but worse. There’s more people here who are actively dying, or escaping. No Sephiroth, but there is Shin-Ra, there are Turks, and Jessie and Biggs are dead. By the time they get Wedge out and confront the realisation that Aerith was taken away, she’s almost delirious.

Through it all, Tifa is aware of Cloud. Cloud, with his moments when pain flashes across his face and she wants to ask what he’s seeing, but she doesn't want to press. Cloud in his anger, when they barely escape with their lives. Cloud, more subdued than usual, finding her when she wanders out of Elmyra’s house. Cloud, accidentally holding her too tight until the metal parts of his gloves dig into her skin, but more comforting than she realised he could be. The perfume still lingers in his hair, and coupled with his warmth, it makes her cry harder.

“They took everything away from us again,” she had said. “Crying is stupid.”

And he had met her gaze. “That’s not true.”

He was there. Her bar, her room, whatever things she had left—all gone, but he’s _there_. Cloud years ago would’ve said the same thing about her crying, she’s sure of it.

They walk back, grass rustling and the usual metal-to-leather sound his sword against his back makes. In the house, up the stairs—she tugs at his sweater, right before he turns.

“Cloud, I—” The fabric twists. “Just for a few hours.”

His expression goes from confusion, suspicion, and then apprehension. “But Marlene’s—” 

“No, I mean…there’s room on the floor.” Oh dear. “To sit. Less crowded, right?” Please let it be dim enough that he can’t see her face is flushing. “We don’t have to…do anything. Or even talk.”

A silence. His look is still uncertain.

She nearly lets go of his sweater, but the last bit of stubbornness pushes on. “When you’re by my side, it’s nice.” Dammit, her face is probably is red.

“…is it?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“Yes.”

Somehow, despite that, he does sit in the room, against the wall. At first, Tifa tries to leave space between them, but when he relaxes one leg, she finally shifts over, letting their arms touch first, and finally their hips. His belt digs into her side, but his shoulder is solid and warm when she finally lays her head there.

They breathe, in tandem. Through the metallic, mako scent interspersed with perfume, she can almost imagine the sunshine that he used to smell like.

“Good night,” he says, voice low. “Tifa.”

She smiles, because if she doesn’t, she might cry more. “Good night.”

**.**

After that, it feels like things have been set in motion, and nothing could stop it. Events one after another, fight after fight, so much potion and ether and materia that she’s amazed she doesn’t glow. Her voice is dry, and everyone looks strained.

But Cloud hasn’t stopped touching her.

…to rephrase that (it sounded worse when she repeated it in her head), he’s always one step away, grabbing her from slipping, pulling her away from danger, casting Cure or tossing her items the instant she needs them. She counted it lucky that she’s been grabbing on to him more than once, leaning in to him. Planet help them, they crawled around in an air vent together.

Hojo’s lab is an awful, nightmarish mess bathed in sickly green and grey, and their shoes are sticky with blood, guts, and who knows what else. The shadows underneath his eyes is worse, and so do the flashbacks, or whatever Cloud is experiencing.

Tifa finally asks him, when they take a brief rest.

“I’m not prying,” she starts out, “But I’m worried. What are you seeing?”

The angle of his chin dips lower. “Just some personal demons.”

Demons, or demon? “Doesn't sound pleasant.”

“No.” He drags one hand through his hair. “They’re stubborn.”

“Well, I’m here if you ever want to talk about it—them.” Not right now, because they’re trying to escape. “We can even get drunk and get angry.”

He makes a sound, somewhere between surprise and amusement. “I can’t imagine you drunk.”

“Can SOLDIERs even get drunk?”

Whatever mirth is in his eyes suddenly fades. “…not sure, I didn’t—don’t—drink much.”

She regrets the comment, but before she can say anything else, Barret’s calling for them to go.

**.**

Cloud had mentioned after meeting Aerith, he had saved her, she had saved him, and so it went. At least, that has been his excuse. But what about all the times he’s kept Tifa from falling, pulled her against him, and reached for her hand? Was it just convenience? Or was it because of a promise made more than ten years ago? Was it just an obligation?

The question followed her, with every Shin-Ra machine and device they broke or stole. It was at the end of the monsters screaming, when he twirled his sword and clicked it against his back. And it was there when they walked into the entrance of destiny.

For sure, Sephiroth has to be stopped. AVALANCHE was protecting the planet, not just from giant, hungry corporations, but also from deceptive, powerful should-be-dead beings. In the literal flurry of Whispers and storms and debris, she wonders.

She loses sight of him at one point, in the frantic nature of the winds. When she calls for him, her voice is swept away. Lost, like how he had been for five years.

The exhaustion hits when they’re out of the storm and the Whispers are gone, and she realises she doesn’t know what time it is, or even what day of the week. Had it really been only such a short time, when AVALANCHE was destroying mako reactors, not fighting their destinies? And now they’re staring at Midgar, at a distance. Step foot in it, and they'd be hunted down.

Tifa didn’t think she could feel this lost as an adult, but there’s no other word for it.

They hitch a ride to Kalm, for starters. Thankfully, they still have money, hotel rooms are acquired, and she spends the first half hour of it lying in bed, unable to rest.

She knocks on Cloud’s door, after pacing the hallway at least twice. He probably knew it was her, but nothing on his face showed that when he opened the door.

“Cloud…” She’s always the one beginning these conversations, isn’t she? “Can I come in?”

He opens the door wider.

They sit side-by-side on the bed. It’s taller than beds she’s used to; the tips of his boots touch, but her feet dangle. He hunches, head low and hair obscuring his face. Almost like a kid, she notes. The air conditioner unit in his room clanks worse than the one in hers.

“I can’t believe it. Going against our destiny, going up against those Whispers…” If she stretches her foot she can just barely make contact with the carpet. “And Sephiroth.”

“I thought I killed him. Back then.” Leather creaks as he folds his hands together. The tendons of his arms are stark, even in the glow of the single light. “I…saw him fall.” 

“No one’s saying you didn’t.” If only she hadn’t been so injured then, to have witnessed it and better assure him.

His lips part, and the tension in his shoulders increase. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

“What’s not a good idea?”

“To go after Sephiroth with me.” The bedsprings creak when he shifts. “I’m the one he’s after, so it’s…dangerous.” He tilts his head, in Tifa’s direction.

She keeps her expression serene. “Are you saying…we’re liabilities?” she asks, carefully.

“No, I—” Cloud drops his gaze again. “I don’t know if I can keep my promise to you.”

Again, with the promise. Fourteen years ago, to be exact.

An unnamed emotion sits in her chest, but it feels like a hot blade twisting inwards.

She grabs his hands, causing the bed to rock. She nearly expects Cloud to pull away, or lash out, but all he does is snap his head up.

“Cloud—” The words click against her teeth. “Listen to me.”

A slow, tentative nod.

“That doesn’t matter right now. That was something we talked about when we were kids. I’m glad you remember it, but it doesn’t matter that much.” Her fingers tighten. 

“Tifa,” he starts.

“No. Cloud.” The blade has reached her throat. “It’s not fair if I keep you to something that long ago. I don’t want to be the one holding you back.”

She doesn’t know if the fact he’s looking at her is a good or bad thing, so she pushes on. “Aerith, Barret, Red XIII, me—we want to save this world, and you want to stop Sephiroth. It’s the same thing. And we’ve come all this way together.”

“Barret nearly died.”

“So did you, once. We all could—”

He cuts in. “But this is—this is different.” 

“Is it?”

The glow in his eyes almost seems to pulse, but they’re probably just reflecting the lights in the room. “He’ll keep coming after me.”

“So you think us leaving you alone is the best way to keep us safe, and to keep your promise to me?”

“…yes?”

The confusion on his face is real, so real that Tifa ends up laughing, choking on the sounds knifing their way through.

It’s so that she doesn’t cry.

“Oh, Cloud.” He blurs in her vision. “You can’t get rid of us that easily.”

“I work better alone.”

“Do you?” She taps the back of his hand. “I could count the times I’ve kept you from falling off the side of a building, or the times I healed you…”

He says nothing.

“My point is, if you really, really want us to leave, we’ll do it. But I don’t want you tie you down with that promise or make you think you have to keep it.” Tifa pulls her knees up, and brings their hands from lap level to chest level. “Tell me what you want, right _now_.”

_Please don’t say you want us to go._

A second turns into five, ten, thirty, a minute. The clunky air conditioner stops, leaving her ears ringing.

His eyes dart from side to side, around the time, and finally, settling on Tifa. “What I want?”

“Anything you want.”

The inhale of his body causes him to pull her hands closer to him.

She waits.

“I guess…you guys can stay. And,” the side of mouth twists, “I keep my promises. Even the old ones.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He ducks his head. “No one kicks ass like you do, Tifa. You bail me out really good.”

She laughs; the pain in her chest has eased. “Someone has to watch your back.” 

“Mhm.” His thumb brushes over hers. “Uh, Tifa.”

“Yes?”

“Can I…have my hands back?”

“Ah, sorry!” She releases them. She hadn’t been meaning to hold them all this time, but she…got a little vehement there, didn’t she?

“I’m fine. I did grab your arm, when you found me in Midgar.”

It feels so long ago—her, out shopping for groceries; him, half-awake in an alley. “Then we’re even.”

“I think so.” 

“You better not sneak out at night.”

“I doubt I can, Aerith…has very good hearing.” He rubs the back of his neck; it’s not something he usually does, but the motion is oddly familiar, though Tifa can’t place why.

“If she catches you, you better hope there aren’t any chairs around.”

“…what?”

She holds a finger up to her lips and giggles. “I’ll let her tell you that story.”

“…sure?” Maybe, just maybe, the shadows in his eyes are less. His shoulders are finally relaxed, mostly.

The giggle leaves her lightheaded, in a good way. Maybe she should get in the habit of threatening Cloud with Aerith, since it seems effective. Hard to believe they had only met a few days ago. 

But maybe that’s what brought them into this—rescuing Aerith, plunging into an unknown realm of destiny, and coming here. Maybe spontaneity is good for them.

“Cloud, I meant what I said earlier. We’ll get through this together.” She rests her hand against his. “Okay?”

Slowly, he curls one finger against hers, sending sparks down her spine.

“Okay.”

It’s a start. A late one, but nonetheless, from between their clasped fingers, it had arisen.

**.end.**

**Author's Note:**

> I put this in GDrive and forgot to actually post it to ao3...so here it is. I've written Cloti before, but under my old account and those fics are not worth putting up here because, again, more than ten years old.


End file.
